There’s a rhythm in the wild when rain begins to fall—a quiet, persistent drumming that threads through the trees, across mossy rocks, and along the winding paths. I step out into it without hesitation, letting the droplets meet my hood with tiny, soothing taps, each one a gentle reminder that I am alive, that the world is alive.
Saturday arrives with a sense of pause—a rare stillness between chapters. Yesterday marked my final day in a job that has shaped nearly seven years of routine and rhythm. On Monday, I’ll begin anew, stepping into a role with an outdoor clothing company—a fitting path, perhaps, for someone who has always sought meaning and sanctuary in the wilderness, the wind, the rain, and the turn of the earth. But for now, I drift in the gentle stillness between endings and beginnings. For this brief weekend, I belong nowhere in particular. I am unchained and free.
We set off just after dawn, when the first threads of light begin to weave through a sky still heavy with the night’s rain. The air is cool and thick with moisture, and the road beneath us shines darkly, mirroring the clouds above. Across the pasture, flocks of seagulls stand in still formation, their white feathers sharp against the dark, muted green.
We set off later than usual this morning. The season is turning, and the darker dawns seem to lull even Carys into a slower start. She waits more patiently now for the light to arrive, as if she, too, understands that some things are worth waiting for.
We set out at six, when the world still belongs to the dark. The farm road stretches ahead—a ribbon of shadow — and the beam of my head torch carves out a circle of light within the darkness. Beyond it, everything dissolves into quiet mystery. No silhouettes of joggers, no familiar figure of the early dog walker this morning—only me and Carys, the rhythm of our steps echoing faintly off the damp road.
The mornings come slower now. When I wake, the light hasn’t yet found its way through the curtains—just that deep, blue-grey half-light that feels neither night nor day. Carys is already awake, stretching at the foot of the bed, tail thudding softly against the floor. She knows the routine, and she’s always ready before I am.
Our morning walk is quiet, calm, and familiar—the kind of day where nothing demands to be photographed, and yet everything seems worthy of notice.